


The Best Antidote

by gowerstreet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London 1918. Holmes is at odds with the rest of the population as he  heads out across the city to find Dr Watson. Cross posted on FF.<br/>All credit to ACD and Granada</p>
<p>ETA 26/6/12<br/>This is the painting that inspired me. Its title is  Armistice Night and it was painted  by William Nicholson. It hangs in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.<br/>http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/images/paintings/ccf/624x544/cam_ccf_1498_624x544.jpg</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Antidote

**Author's Note:**

> "work is the best antidote to sorrow." - The Empty House

The Best Antidote

For E.M.R-T 1974-2008

A curiously sombre day at first. Naked trees, paths littered with rotting leaves, Fog and mire for miles. Nature was grieving for the best of the year. Until the clock struck eleven.

The streets were thronged with people, chattering, laughing, singing.  Music spilled from open windows. Later on, fireworks splintered the sky, illuminating greasy cobbles, but a lone figure walked on, blocking out their bleatings and brayings with a grimace.

He strode across the city, mind focused on his destination. Lady Godiva could have passed his shoulder, all hair and nakedness, and he wouldn’t have acknowledged her.

Then at last the gates of St Bartholomew’s Hospital rose up in front of him. A church clock chimed the forty five as the evening deepened.

Holmes leant against the opposing corner and struck a match against the brickwork to light up.  There were few revellers here; it was hard to celebrate, knowing that a few yards behind these ancient walls, perhaps a thousand young lives were ending hideously early. Family groups passed by in huddles; sombre-clad, heads bowed, hearts aching, handkerchieves blooming like lilies in shaking hands.

The memories of personal loss invaded as he sucked on the cigarette.  How many of the Irregulars remained? Two had died in the first flash of conflict; another had been lost at Ypres.  Barely old enough to be there. Their bright, sharp ingenious faces lost in the mud.

Some hope remained for the rest; Mycroft had stirred from his hole at the War Office, as frozen as ever, to present him with sketchy details of the missing lads.  All still living, apparently. Some wounded. On their return, if they did return, they would find themselves mysteriously reposted to the security of the Civil Service. The family toad had his uses after all.

A smallish, greying man slipped out of the hospital entrance and headed away.  A battered medical bag sagged from his right wrist. Exhaustion was wrapped around him like a scarf, and he did not look up, save to ensure his safe passage across the street.

Holmes absorbed the details of his friend’s demeanour.  A fresh shirt, hurriedly buttoned. Loose cuffs threatening to escape from coat sleeves. A faint miasma of chloroform. The rawness of hands repeatedly scrubbed and prepared for surgery. The freshly-deepened furrows etched at the side of impossibly tired eyes.

Eyes which brightened as they found him.  They almost smiled for the briefest instant. “Holmes.” A mock scold. “Please think of your health.  Today is too bitter and sharp for your chest.”

“Tsk.” He almost smiled. “What news?”

“Jack arrived on the latest troop ship. Fractured ribs, significant shrapnel damage, but relatively clear of infection. Lestrade is with him now.”

Something akin to relief shimmered between the two men before their rationality re-emerged.  “What are his chances?” asked Holmes.

“Improving. He has made it back thus far, despite a hellish journey.  His lungs are clear of gas, thank God, and he appears to have avoided major neurasthenia.”

“Did you manage to speak to Lestrade?”

“For the briefest moment, as they brought Jack in.  The man has not left since he received word from Scotland Yard. He vows to be there when Jack awakes.”

Holmes nodded. “I will endeavour to visit tomorrow, all being well.”

An omnibus full of celebrating workers whooshed past within inches of the two men. Watson swayed dangerously in its wake; the exhaustion of the day was settling in.  Holmes swooped on his medical bag with one hand and laid the other on Watson’s undamaged shoulder. “Come,” he chivvied. “Mrs Hudson is expecting us.”

“So it is all over,”  said Watson, once they were safely ensconced in a cab.

“Bar the shouting and screaming and vulgar celebration.” Holmes stared into the gloom. The streets were filled with an increasingly drunken and apparently immoral population.  There would be precious little peace near Baker Street tonight.

Watson looked askance at his companion.  “Do they not deserve this celebration, Holmes? The victory is ours.  We have vanquished Germany and her ilk.”

“For now, perhaps.  War is nothing to be celebrated. After all, it is merely the wholesale legitimised slaughter of millions who did not ask to die.  The legally sanctioned destruction of centuries of civilisation for the sake of a few square score miles of land.” He dismissed it with a sweep of his hand.

Watson’s stare intensified. “So you would have preferred that England and her colonies merely laid down their arms and allowed the Hun to destroy all in its path? This was a war worth fighting for.  You must be able to comprehend that.”

“But what of the cost? The signatures are not yet twelve hours old, and the wounded and dispossessed are already wandering the streets. Do not tell me that you are blind to them.  Yes, the right empire won, but at what price? Half a generation of men ploughed into the ground, the other half despoiled by surviving hell.  We will still be paying the cost of this victory a century from now.”

Silence bloomed uneasily between them. Holmes rested his chin on his steepled hands, a darkening fog swirling around his thoughts. His outburst had wounded Watson, and this he deeply regretted. His was not the only angry voice tonight, but Watson was an undeserving target for his rage.  This good man, the best of men, had done nothing to deserve this attack, and the guilt dragged at him like Marley’s chains.

A hand laid itself on his forearm. He jumped as though galvanised.  “Holmes…” A calm, gentle, forgiving voice. “Holmes, look at me.” With great reluctance, the detective followed the doctor’s order.

“This is the darkness speaking. It has been a desperate time for us all, not least for you.  A great and good man once told me that work was the best antidote to sorrow. He was right. There will be cases aplenty as this peace ravels itself together.” He watched the prospect of these lighten Holmes’ brow. “Gregson will be thankful for your assistance, I am sure, as will Lestrade, once our dear godson Jack regains more precious ground.”

Holmes acknowledged the truth of his words and sighed.  The dead were gone, but they lived, and the Game would rumble onwards. As they turned the corner onto Baker Street, Watson continued.

“The world has not changed so much that it can survive without your services.”

Holmes humphed, but then almost smiled.  He sprang from the cab, paid the driver and clapped Watson on the back, “Come on,  my Boswell. Mrs Hudson’s scones must not be kept waiting,” he cried, as they disappeared behind through the door of 221 Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still fairly new to this type of writing . Reviews and comments welcome!


End file.
